Nothing Left to Lose
by mrdarcysmuse
Summary: AU starting from Season 1, Episode 7, focusing mainly on Mary/Matthew, with some Edith and a smattering of other characters. Very drastic ending planned. Be prepared for angst and Fellowes-style melodrama, without Fellowes-style impeccable writing!
1. Chapter 1

This is the first fanfic I've written in years. I had an idea, wrote a poem about it, and decided to expand it into an AU. Simply do not ask me what this is all about,because I do not know, my dears! Reviews and comments are greatly appreciated by this very amateur fanfic writer.

This first chapter may seem a bit redundant, as it recaps S1 E7, but I swear it'll be wildly different as the story continues! I also promise that I have something lovely planned for darling Edith!

* * *

><p><em>November 10, 1918<em>

"_Such good luck," she whispers,  
><em>_The engine exhales a long gust of goodbyes.  
><em>—"_Don't be a hero."  
><em>_His medals dance in sorrowful eyes._

_From Ripon to the Somme,  
><em>_Rails speed past the gossamer night.  
><em>_From Barchester Towers to Quiet, Quiet on the Western Front,  
><em>_To fight the Huns who clamor that might, is right._

_His photograph by her bedside,  
><em>_Taken from its frame and polished every day,  
><em>_Appraised with a prayer,  
><em>"_Dear Lord, I beg you to keep him safe."_

_But safety lies only in death,  
><em>_A sanctuary from the hellfire—  
><em>_Faceless faces and soundless screams,  
><em>_Sepulcher trenches and dreams—of Yorkshire._

"_It's almost over,  
><em>_You'll be home soon."  
><em>_She writes in teary haste.  
><em>"_So soon—We'll be together at Christmas,"  
><em>_She says to a blasé, silent moon._

"_It's almost over,  
><em>_You'll be home soon."  
><em>_He reads by gaslight and shrapnel sparks  
><em>_The lies of Lord Northcliffe, a newspaper tycoon._

_The bullet with his name on it,  
><em>_Soars through the sable sky.  
><em>_He presses her letter to his heart,  
><em>_And swears to heaven, "For this I will not die."_

_A telegram, a shuddered gasp.  
><em>"_Killed in action," "An honorable death."  
><em>_Pathetic wails and chandeliers clanging—"No—!"_

_An empty grave, a show that flopped.  
><em>_Home is the hunter, home from the hill.  
><em>_And the sailor from the sea.  
><em>_Here he lies, where he never longed to be._

* * *

><p>August 4, 1914<p>

As Lady Mary Crawley stared out the window of the library, looking on the grand garden party, she saw her whole life before her. Her father, Lord Grantham, was greeting his guests in a handsome white suit. Carson and Mrs Hughes hurried about, directing Thomas or William to fetch this and that. Edith stood chatting mere nothings to Sir Anthony, while Sybil ducked into a tent, looks of pure delight on her face. Mama (_poor Mama!) _sat under a canopy, glancing listlessly at her party, smiling an occasional wan smile. Granny, of course, was brandishing her stick in argument to Cousin Isobel. Yet, in seeing all the people she was closest too, Mary felt lonely and lost: where was her place in all this?

And where was _Matthew? _Her heart gave a twinge as she thought of him. They had argued, and she knew, for a fact, that he hadn't forgiven her. She still heard his angry and exasperated words reverberating in her ears: _"Do you love me enough to spend the rest of your life with me?" _She regretted, most bitterly, that she hadn't answered him. She hadn't told him what was in her heart: a passionate "Yes!" and a burning desire to break free from everything that kept them apart.

Mary turned away from the window and walked out into the long hall, which lead her outside. An argent ray of sunlight pierced her gloom as she blinked and nearly collided into the head housemaid, Anna.

"Beg your pardon, m'lady."

"I'm sorry—I wondered if you've seen Mr. Crawley." A mere statement concealed a thousand exigencies.

Anna smiled. "I just saw him a moment ago with Dr. Clarkson. Would like me to find him?"

"No. It's quite alright. I'll let you get on with your work."

Mary knew that delaying their encounter was futile, and so she resolved to walk bravely into the sun. She would find comfort in the shades of milky white and luscious green, and Beethoven's 6th Symphony that now sounded across the lawn. At once, she saw Matthew across the expansive grounds. He stood, entirely motionless, balancing a champagne glass and staring into a clear pond, lost in his thoughts. Though she could not see his face, she could well imagine his furrowed brow, resolute lip, and piercing blue eyes that would shatter _her_ resolve.

Now, none of the party seemed to matter, except the man standing aloof and silent. Mary approached him, her footsteps sibilant on the soft grass.

Without turning his head, Matthew shifted his body slightly and uttered, "Mary."

She inhaled sharply. "Matthew. I don't know what to say, but I'm sorry—"

"No, please. I don't want to hear any apologies. I know how terrible this must be for Cousin Robert and Cousin Cora. To lose a child, a son, an heir—to lose everything in one day."

Mary bit her lip. "You're the heir to Downton. That hasn't changed. And you're angry with me."

He turned around in disbelief. "Angry? No, Mary, I'm not angry. I'm only disappointed, and disheartened. Like a fool, I thought you could go past all that nonsense about a position of wealth—being the lady of the county! But, how wrong I was! I saw you for someone you weren't, and that was my mistake. _I'm_ sorry for that."

Shaking her head and holding back tears, Mary managed to say, "No! It's not like that—you don't understand—"

"I loved you, Mary. All you've given me is a dream—a dream that was false and deceitful."

_Loved_, the past form of "love." That was enough to make her tears break free of their hindrance. "That's not fair. You know that's not fair!—"

"You've been brought up to believe that you can manipulate others at your will, and dispose of them when they cease to be of service, and I fell fool to that." He turned away again, clenching the pallid glass.

Mary was silent for a few moments. She could feel the heat and passion of his anger. His words burnt like brazen tongs onto her heart. She spoke again, "You're right."

Matthew spun around, not so much in anger this time as in surprise. His chest heaved in heated exertion.

"You're right," she repeated, wiping her tears. This time, she chose her words carefully. "I was brought up as the eldest daughter of an earl. I've lived a very different life from you. Growing up, I knew from the start what was expected of me: marry well; what comes before or after are only insignificant details. I longed to escape this life, but this 'duty' is inescapable. When you asked me to marry you, I felt that our marriage would be a compromise—I would be marrying for love and so doing, fulfilling the duty of Downton."

"But when you realized that I might lose my inheritance—"

"Yes, I faltered! Because I thought—"

"You were scared to become the wife of a middle class lawyer and live a life of abject poverty," Matthew spat bitterly.

"Don't joke, Matthew. Please." Mary shook her head in frustration.

"You know I can't forgive you…no matter how much I want to."

Mary gave one last plea. "You must give me credit for one thing—I could have listened to Granny and accepted you while you were still the heir, and withdrawn later when you lost the inheritance. At least I didn't lie to you. Not like that."

"But now this has happened, and I'll never know what you would have done, will I?" Matthew retorted.

"I wasn't taught to marry for love!"

"You should have learned!" Matthew turned his back as he spoke, and began pacing wildly along the edge of the pond. His strained, broken voice rang in the space between them, and Mary fell silent. She felt, at last, that there was nothing she could say or do to heal the wound that pained both of them. And now, the sounds of a garden party brought her back to a reluctant calm. There was nothing to do but wait for a whisper to pass between them, something to place their inevitable parting on better grounds.

He spoke at last. "I'm sorry it has to be like this, but—"

Mary would never know what he was about to say. At that moment, he was interrupted by Robert Crawley's voice from across the lawn. "My Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen, can I ask for silence?"

Without another word, Matthew and Mary hurried towards the center of the party, both perceiving intuitively the gravity of what was to come. Their steps barely grazed the grass as they walked in tempered haste. Soon, they could hear Robert's voice clearly as he stood in a somber state amidst the mirthful lords, ladies, and gentlemen.

Robert glanced down at the telegram in his hand. "I regret to inform you that we are at war with Germany."

Mary clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Sobs and looks of amazed terror could be heard and seen throughout the throng of immaculately dressed people. A terrible silence ensued, permeated only by long, sad breaths and whispered sighs of "Dear Lord..." Robert walked towards Cora, reaching for her outstretched hand with an equally trembling one. Violet uttered a soundless "My God," as her stick faltered and she found support in Rosamund's arm. From the highest peer to the lowly kitchen maids, everyone marked this day as one of solemnity and solidarity.

In the few minutes after Robert's announcement, Mary had forgotten her argument with Matthew. Now, she turned around to look at him. His eyes brimmed with a resoluteness that spoke more than any words could.

There was no anger or hesitance in his voice as he looked her squarely and said, "I'm going to fight, Mary."

Her lip quivered. "This changes everything, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"And what about us?" She asked, not wanting to hear his answer.

"I don't know."


	2. Chapter 2

That evening, after all consolations, inquiries, and regrets were told and retold, the Grantham family gathered before dinner in the drawing room. Only Lady Rosamund Painswick was left of the garden party's guests; she would stay the night before returning to London. Of the somber assembly, Violet was the first to have recovered from the sudden and unwelcome news of the afternoon. "Well, my dears," she said, "There's no use looking so despondent. I say if it weren't for the Liberal parliament, England wouldn't have come to this."

"Be that as it may," said Robert, "We can no longer pit Tory against Liberal. The fight is between England and Germany, and we must be unified to support this war."

Violet dismissed his speech with an imperious flick of the hand. "And be _that _as it may, the Prime Minister had better not expect us to vote for him in the next election."

Robert sniffed. "You won't be voting whatever happens, Mama."

Cora, who was still weak and pale from her illness, quickly came to quell the spark. "I'm afraid we'll all have to make changes now, for better or for worse."

"What? Are you going back to America?" Violet retorted at once, feigning ignorance.

Everyone ignored this quip as Sybil spoke up from a plush footstool. "I know this is all supposed to be very terrible, but I can't help feeling it might come to be terribly exciting, too."

Rosamund gave a great shudder. "You had better swallow your words before it's too late to take them back, my dear."

Edith, always loathe to admit anything that might alter her view of the immediate world, said, "I don't see how anything will change for _us. _Papa isn't going to war, are you, Papa?"

This idea was less welcome to Robert. "I certainly hope I can do my bit."

"I shouldn't count on it, darling," said Cora.

Violet jerked her head. "This isn't twenty years ago in the Boer War. They can't be so heartless as to force an aging man to fight the Germans."

Robert looked aghast. "I thank you for that assessment, Mama. I do wonder what Mary got up to. Whatever is taking her so long?"

"She won't admit it, but she's rather upset about Matthew," said Sybil.

Robert placed a hand on Cora's shoulder; he knew how the mention of Mary and Matthew's broken engagement reminded her of the miscarriage.

A couple moments of unbreached silence ensued, as everyone was trying to avoid any talk about the lost heir and the precarious future of Downton. In a sinister and ironic way, the news of war came as a distraction to keep their minds from wandering into a subject that was far more close to their lives at present. Only Edith still looked calm, and indignant, as she had not yet forgiven Mary for driving Sir Anthony away.

At last, Rosamund spoke in an exasperated tone, "Oh, for heaven's sake, don't all look at me. It wasn't _all _my fault."

Violet snorted. "Mrs. Crawley certainly seems to think so."

"Who's side are you on, Mama?" Rosamund replied, "I though you didn't even like him."

"Whether I like or dislike him is quite beside the point."

The drawing room door creaked open as Mary entered, holding a sealed note in her hand. "This just arrived from Crawley House. It's for you, Papa." She feighed nonchalance, walking briskly and passing the note to her father.

Robert frowned, "Thank you, Mary." As he tore the note open and read the first words, a visible change overcame him, a change not unlike that during the garden party only hours ago. "Good God. I can't believe it. It's from Matthew. He's going to enlist in the army. He writes, 'I'm going to London in the morning on the 10:30.'"

"How soon change has come upon us," said Violet wryly.

Cora blanched at the word "enlist". "Why must he take it upon himself to join the army? Won't he be drafted soon enough?"

Robert sighed. "He wishes to do his part and fight for the King. That is perfectly honorable, though, as his family, we may lament it."

Rosamund, ever the one to ask the blunt question, said, "But how terrible. What if he should be killed? You shall have to find another heir for Downton."

Though Robert's feelings on this score were even more acute than those of his sister, he put on a show of unshakable patriotism. "I have reason to believe that the heirs of many great estates across the English countryside are putting their homes, not to mention their lives, in danger. Downton is nothing without our King and Country."

"Quite right, darling," Cora smiled, placing a hand on Robert's arm.

As the drawing room fell silent, Mary was forced to think about the chaotic events that assailed her without pause that day. Her legs quavered and she dropped into a sofa in front of the unlit fire. All the voices around her sounded like distant echoes; she could only hear a low buzz of commotion and see a haze of colors that was Robert, Cora, Violet, and the others. She felt a burst of panic in her chest, a sudden jolt. _Matthew was going to war. He would be leaving tomorrow to enlist. _The realization came upon her and set heavily on her already weary heart. For the first time in her life, Mary was frightened.

* * *

><p>Dinner was a grave affair. Everyone was fearful of speaking, lest the smallest utterance should upset somebody. An occasional "Carson, will you fetch the salt shaker?" was all that breached the silence.<p>

Mary would rather have listened to any senseless banter than a silence interrupted only by metallic clanging of knives on dinner plates and steady footsteps of the servants. Finally, the last course was removed, and the ladies rose, leaving Robert to his port. Mary stumbled as she got up from her chair, feeling a sudden dizziness overcome her. She spoke in a breathless monotone, "I'm so sorry. I have the most terrible headache. I'm afraid I'll need to go lie down." With that, she rushed out, holding a hand to her throat, hurrying upstairs. She could hear Cora's exasperated and worried sigh behind her, but she couldn't stop.

Mary knew what she had to do—she had to see Matthew. There was no rationality in her resolve, no consideration of propriety, merely an inexplicable necesity. As she reached the landing outside her bedroom, Mary knew how foolish her idea was. She shuddered to think what Violet would say if she were seen by one of the servants venturing toward the village alone after dinner. But there was no other way. This was the time for decision, not vacillation. Mary wrapped a shawl over her shoulder and pressed a shaking finger to the bell.

In a minute, Anna knocked and called, "M'lady?"

"Anna, come in," Mary sighed in relief, "Thank God."

As she peered through the door, Anna saw a breathless, agitated Mary, who rarely appeared in place of the calm, nonchalant one. "What on earth's the matter, Lady Mary? You're as pale as a ghost."

"It's—I have to walk down to the village. If anyone asks for me, will you tell them that I went to bed?"

Anna's eyes widened. "It's not my place to ask, but are you sure you're going to be alright, m'lady?"

Mary sank down on the bed, covering her face with shaking hands. "I don't know. I just know that if I don't, I'll regret it for the rest of my life."

* * *

><p>Minutes later, Mary was walking down the path that led from the back door of Downton Abbey to Grantham Village. Thankfully, Mary thought, as she pulled her shawl higher against her hair, there weren't any people to see her. She knew it was a spell of madness, but she could not doubt herself, not now. Pasing another row of dimmed shop windows and languishing poplar trees, Mary reached the gate of Crawley House.<p>

Again, she was at a loss for what to do in this situation that was neither socially correct nor proper. She pushed open the gate gingerly and came to the door. After tapping three times, she was met by a callow-faced hall boy who looked shocked as he saw her. Perhaps he recognized Lady Mary Crawley from seeing her once at the village flower show.

"Are the Crawleys at dinner?" The urgency in Mary's voice left no room for him to make extraneous inquiries.

"No, m'lady, that is—" The hall boy gave a great swallow. "They're in the drawing room now."

"Is there any chance I might speak to Mr. Crawley?"

"Yes. Can I ask—?"

"Please tell him I have a message from Lord Grantham."

Mary turned around as soon as the boy slipped back inside. She walked toward the gate and gazed out into the black night, trying to count the stars, doing anything to distract herself from what was happening. At last, there was a click behind her as the door swung open and footsteps fell onto the stone-paved path. The footsteps did not venture far before they halted. She heard only a sigh and, "Oh Mary, what use can this be?"

She had asked herself the same question only moments before. Turning around and letting the shawl drop onto the crooks of her arms, Mary looked at him with pleading eyes. "No use. None at all," she said, echoing his thoughts.

"They why?"

"If I didn't, I might never have the chance again."

"The chance for what? We've said everything to each other that had to be said."

Mary closed her eyes and twisted the corner of her shawl. "To tell you how I really feel, because I love you. Oh, heavens. I don't think I've ever said that out loud before."

Matthew unstuck his feet from the path and looked at her with an expression that spoke more of tenderness than any other emotion. In an instant, he was in front of her, pressing a hand to her cheek. "My darling Mary, don't let me hear that. Won't you stop before you break both our hearts again?"

Mary gave a sob that turned into a smile. His touch was long-desired and long-awaited. His fingertips ignited a young blush that surfaced on her cheek, pale in the moonlight. "You're going away tomorrow," she whispered.

"Don't speak. Don't remind me of all that," Matthew breathed, moving his hand down to her thin, trembling lip.

To Mary, this moment was inscrutable, ineffable. Feelings of uncertainty, desire, confusion, and passion escalated into a mutual wish to seize the impulse of that instant. The blanket of darkness covered them securely, and there was not a single person so bold as to peek behind the succulent rose bush.

Matthew placed his other hand on the small of her back. "Just let me have this before I go." Their lips met, and the roses closed their petals, blushing at the lovers' perfection.

Mary had no thought nor inhibitions, save a voice in her head that repeated Matthew's name again and again, causing her heart to pound wildly against his warm body. Yet, as his lips left hers after an insufficient substitute for eternity, a different name came into her mind, one that made her gasp and break away from him immediately.

"What's wrong?" Matthew asked, "Are you cold?" He started to pull her shawl over her slender shoulder.

_Kemal Pamuk, _a name that was destined to fill her with memories of shame and guilt forever. Now, as she returned Matthew's steadfast gaze, she felt impure and unworthy of him. She had to tell him, even if it meant the end to all her hopes of happiness. She took a step back, edging towards the gate. "There was another reason I couldn't give you an answer when you asked me to marry you."

"No, don't—"

"Yes. Please." Mary took a deep breath, preparing herself for the foolish revelation that would bare her soul before him. "I think you remember the Turkish attache who stayed at Downton last year?"

Matthew blinked in puzzlement. "Yes. I don't believe I could have forgotten that dreadful incident any time soon. What was his name?"

"Kemal Pamuk." As she said the name aloud, Mary tripped over the harsh sounds on her tongue. "He died in our house…" She didn't know where to begin.

"In one of the rooms in the bachelor's corridor, wasn't it?"

"That was where they found him in the morning." Mary grasped a strong branch of the rosebush to steady herself. "You see, he died in my bedroom during the night."

"Do you mean to say—? No, this can't be as bad as I think it is. You must tell me it isn't true, Mary, that he walked up the wrong staircase or something. Oh, God!"

To her surprise, tears did not come. She would face her shame and his judgement with serenity. "It's true. Every word."


	3. Chapter 3

_My apologies for the slow updates! School and fretting about the future take a huge toll on my mental health. I'm afraid this chapter is rather uneventful, and Sir Richard isn't half so bad as we all think him. All references and allusions may or may not be historically sound. _

* * *

><p>October, 1914. London.<p>

"Lady Astor is inviting you to a house party at Cliveden next week," Rosamund read aloud as she and Mary opened their letters at breakfast. They sat across from each other in the bright yellow dining room of Rosamund's house in London.

Mary stared listelessly out the window at a warbling songbird that had just alighted on a branch, causing a few more leaves to come spiraling down. "She's still having parties then? Even with _the state of things_?"

Rosamund sipped her tea. "They've got the Canadian Red Cross building a hospital on the grounds, but there's really no _state of things._"

"A hospital? My goodness."

"Your mother thinks it would do you some good to get away from—all this."

_All this. _Mary wished she could dismiss the past few years of her life so easily. "Who else will be there?"

Peering over her cup, Rosamund read again, "'Just a few of the usual set,' she writes, 'and probably a few others who claim to be too busy but never fail to turn up for a Saturday to Monday at Cliveden.'"

Mary raised a quizzical brow.

"My dear, you know how the Astors pride their hospitality."

"I wonder why she couldn't just write to me."

Rosamund folded the letter back. "Well, I told her you may be staying with me, and she didn't know for sure if you were in London or Yorkshire."

Mary shrugged. "Next week? That's a rather short notice. And I do wish she invited more of her interesting friends."

"Mary, I'm so glad…that you're setting your sights away from, well—you know—"

"I haven't agreed to go yet."

"Are you or aren't you? If you are, you can write to her."

Mary looked back out the window. The songbird had flown off, leaving a branch jilted in the wild. "There's certainly nothing better to do."

"In that case," Rosamund began, assuming an authoritative tone and position, "I'll telephone Downton and tell tell Cora that you'll be needing _clothes. _You can't go to Cliveden looking like this! You'll need—"

"Honestly, Aunt Rosamund, you talk as if I've never been to a house party." Mary smiled at her agitation.

"I didn't think you were quite up to this sort of thing yet."

It was in this moment that Mary hardened her resolve: she wouldn't think of him any longer. Just once more will she wordlessly utter his name: _Matthew. _To forget someone, she thought, couldn't possibly be as difficult as the poets make it seem. She would simply renounce sorrow and regret. After all, there was life to be lived. She would begin by showing Rosamund her new determination. "If you're talking about what you call _all that_, I can assure you I'm quite past being dejected."

Rosamund's expression quickly turned from one of incredulity to one of relief. She smiled smugly. "In that case, I'll leave you to it. But I'm not certain how many _men _there will be at Cliveden. They'll all at war, you know..."

* * *

><p>Cliveden was the sort of country house whose grandeur couldn't be diminished by the jarring presence of stocks, ladders, and wheelbarrows filled with slabs of brick. <em>A hospital, indeed. <em>The house stood in all its righteous self-importance as the former residence of an Earl, two Dukes, a Prince of Wales, and now the recently created Viscount and Viscountess Astor. Situated in the heart of Buckinghamshire, it was a pleasant change from the chilling country houses in the north of England that Mary was so used to. As soon as the car pulled up to the front path, she could feel the familiar air of good humor and hearty laughs that pervaded the Astor residence. She got out and inhaled deeply, something she couldn't well have done at the train station.

Mary was nodding to the chauffeur and turning to one of the maids when a great honk sounded behind her. She turned around to see a black car not unlike the one she just descended from. The driver got out, looking flustered, and dashed to open the door for the passenger.

The man that alighted was tall and thin, with a shrewd eye and a cynical mouth. To Mary, he seemed cool and supercilious, but out of place on the breezy, green lawn of Cliveden. He shot the driver a reproachful look and jerked his head in the direction of the trunk, which, presumably, contained his cases. Just as he took a few steps toward the front door, he noticed Mary watching him. He turned to her with anmused expression, tipping his hat and opening his mouth to say—

"Mary!" Lady Astor's warm, authoritative voice rang out from the half-opened door. She bounded out in front of the butler, Mr. Lee, rushing to take Mary's hand.

Mary smiled, recalling her host's gregarious manner and American accent that was almost reminiscient of Cora's, but much sharper. "Lady Astor, this is so kind of you—"

"Oh, nevermind all that!" Lady Astor waved her hand, looking Mary up and down. "My dear! Look how you've grown! You're more beautiful every time I see you!"

Unlike Cora, Lady Astor never seemed to have adjusted to the British standard of friendliness, and continued to exceed its mark. Mary found her warmth comforting and easy. "It _was _only four months since we last met in London…"

Her words trailed off as the motor cars drove off, and Lady Astor finally sighted her second guest, the man in the gray tweed. She grinned, almost mysteriously, at Mary, and beckoned him near. "Mary," she announced, "May I present to you—Sir Richard Carlisle." She then turned to him. "Richard, this is Lady Mary Crawley."

Their eyes met in mutual recognition. This was _him_, then, Carlisle. Sir Richard. The news tycoon who owned half the papers in England. The self-made man who amassed his fortune in the wake of aristocrats' scandals and who would now use his millions to buy up their crumbling estates.

Undoubtedly, Carlisle recognized Mary, the Earl of Grantham's daughter, from hearing her name in conversation, and now the image of a lovely face accompanied it: haughty brows, porcelain complexion, fine figure, and a dauntless smile.

"Well, aren't you going to say something to one another?" Lady Astor let out an impatient sigh. "Or haven't I done the proper introductions you English are so particular about?"

Richard gave a little bow. "Lady Mary, I've heard so much about you."

"And I—well, I've read a few of your papers," Mary returned.

He chuckled. "I don't doubt that."

"Oh, come! We've got past all the 'how d'ye do's' and 'hellos'! You can talk once we're inside. There's no saying when the Germans will come by and drop a bomb on poor old Cliveden." She motioned Lee to open the door and hurried to lead them in, as though an air raid was actually imminent.

Richard laughed. "You don't really think—"

"Well, we _have _got a _military _hospital being built!" Lady Astor stopped as they came to the staircase, pointing up. "Your rooms are up there, Richard. I think you'll want to rest up before tea and dinner. You'll find Mr. Fitzroy and Lord Mandelson already sound asleep in their rooms."

"And I shall follow suit." He nodded at the two ladies, his gaze lingering on Mary's face for an extra second as he stepped onto the stairs. "Thank you, Lady Astor."

Mary waited for his shadow to leave the top step before fixing a warm but incriminating glare at Lady Astor, who smiled in comprehension.

"I asked him for you, Mary." She, good-naturedly, mistook Mary's expression of distaste. "Really, there's no need to thank me. I'll let _Lord _Astor know how grateful you are. I wouldn't know Richard if it weren't for his connections with these newsmen."

"No—"

"I know your grandmother certainly wouldn't approve. He's so very newly rich. But you'll like him." Lady Astor's tone suddenly changed from one of effervescence to one of sincerity. "The two of you are really not so different."

* * *

><p>Mary felt a pair of eyes boring into the back of her neck as she came out of the room. It was a few minutes past teatime, and she left an untouched tin tray where the maid had left it. She lifted her head reluctantly, not at all surprised to find Carlisle glancing at her nonchalantly from the bottom stair. "Sir Richard, aren't you going to have tea?"<p>

"Are you?"

Mary came down the stairs. "No, I'd rather have a breath of fresh air."

"May I join you?"

She had counted on solitude, but Carlisle's enigmatic presence wouldn't be _disagreeable. _"By all means, if you haven't anything better to occupy your time with."

Carlisle laughed. "What else is there to do in one of these old, stuffy country houses?"

"You disapprove, Sir Richard," Mary said, as they walked out to a path that led to one of the many gardens. It was _merely _half a mile's walk, as Lady Astor liked to say.

"Not at all. In truth, I believe I'm inclined to like Cliveden already." He made a show of inhaling vastly. "Do you come here often?"

"Not very, but I've been. Lady Astor is a great friend of my mother's. They're both American, you see."

"American? My, my. Have you been across the Atlantic, then?"

"Only once. I was quite young at the time."

"I see."

They walked on in an uncontested silence for a few minutes until they came to the daintily wrought gate that opened to the garden.

Carlisle spoke again as they ducked under a hedge-like verandah of vines and ivies. "You must think I look rather misplaced in all this."

"What? Of course you look out of place in a garden of chrysanthemums and odd-looking leaves."

Carlisle smiled at her ruse. "You know what I mean."

"Well, I—"

"Certainly, you can see I haven't got a page in _Burke's Peerage_ or _Landed Gentry_."

Mary stopped to brush her fingers on a particularly alluring petal. "I'm sure you could find a knighted Carlisle somewhere in the ranks."

Richard sighed in good humor. She was clearly unwilling to speak candidly to him. He decided upon silence, again.

Mary followed suit, but said, after a short lull, "So, what is it you do? I've never met a newspaper owner, not unless you count Lord Astor."

"I look for stories, not just political by-elections or new laws or deaths of noblemen, but news people want to read, and I sell them."

"What sort of news do people want to read?"

"Anything sensational—outrageous—ridiculous—shocking—"

"Do they, indeed?" Mary thought it best to appear shocked.

"It's been thoroughly tested in America by Mr. Pulitzer and Mr. Hearst. They made their millions—"

"And so have you. Millions and more, I gather," Mary said. "And do you find enough of those stories in London?"

"You would be surprised."

Mary started to turn back from the end of the garden path. "We ought to go and dress for dinner."

"Your people are so particular about this sort of thing."

"My people?"

"Dressing at the gong and going down to dinner at the designated hour—"

Sure enough, a distant, metallic twang filled the air as the sun could be seen setting past the horizon.

* * *

><p>Mary didn't think of the dinner again until she lay in bed, exhausted and relieved to have the night's respite from having to smile and laugh and chatter mindlessly. She closed her eyes as the scene replayed itself in her mind.<p>

The party, with the exception of Lord Astor, Sir Richard, and a few other elderly country squires, consisted of women. The stolid, broad-whiskered Lord Astor seemed to retreat behind his sparkling wife, fixing his adoring eyes on her as she charmed the company in her easy manner. In Mary's mind, their faces and voices melted into a vortex of almost-forced smiles, too-eager exclamations, and vividly coloured gowns. All these sounds and sights faded to a murky depth as she drifted off to sleep. From that serene crevasse now stirred the solemn figure of Matthew extending his hand as he bid Mary goodbye without so much as a reconciling look. That was the day he left for London, to enlist and fight—the last day she would ever see him, so it felt. The Matthew in her dream turned his back resolutely and clambered into the backseat of the motorcar, which sped off, leaving a trail of hazy gray that encircled her.

The gray mist soon became the smoke of shellfire that rained down on a field covered with shrapnel shards and stippled with congealed blood. There wasn't a soldier in sight, save Matthew, who charged ahead in total disregard of the bombs. He ran and fell, tumbled and staggered onward. From the horizon now loomed another figure, larger and more frightening than Matthew—the corpse of Mr. Pamuk, livid and sinister, coming close and close to Matthew, whose sheer terror could be heard as a scream—the sound of a bullet lodging itself in his heart and—

Matthew's screams were replaced with Mary's meek whimper as she sat up, staring wildly about. Her heart pounded against her ribcage and the back of her nightgown felt as if it were drenched in ice. _No. _She would try to forget, again, roll over to the other side of the bed, wrap the covers tightly around her, and perchance to sleep without the thought of what dreams may come.


End file.
